


Hold Still

by linndechir



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Dom/sub, Dressed/naked, Face Slapping, Frottage, Honour Bondage, Light Bondage, M/M, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Bruce could get Clark to agree to the stupidest things out of mere spite, or else Clark wouldn't have found himself naked on his knees in Bruce's bedroom, glaring up at him.





	Hold Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steals_Thyme (Liodain)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/gifts).



“Hold still.”

It was a simple command, much simpler than the situation he found himself in. The stone floor was hard under Clark's bare knees and he imagined that it would have been uncomfortable for anyone else, but to Clark it simply felt smooth and cool, like the air around them, as sleek as the lines of Bruce's suit when he stopped in front of Clark.

Most of the time Clark tried to dampen his senses, to tune out the overwhelming barrage of sounds and smells and sensations, but now he let himself feel all of it. The purl of the lake and the rustling of leaves around the lakehouse and the low hum of the servers down in the Cave, and louder than that Bruce's slow, controlled breathing, his steady heartbeat, the almost soundless steps of leather soles on the stone floor. His smell – clean skin that probably wouldn't have smelt like anything but soap to a human nose, but Clark could still smell Bruce underneath, his scent mingling with the dark pine of his cologne. The smell of freshly laundered clothes, of silk underwear rubbing against smooth skin, of leather shoes and silver cufflinks. The sensation of the air moving over Clark's bared skin when Bruce walked around him. Circled around him like an animal cornering its prey.

He allowed himself to bathe in the sensations, despite how light-headed it made him feel. He was already in over his head anyway.

He looked up at Bruce – the perfectly symmetrical Windsor knot of his tie, framed by the silver collar pin (Clark didn't think he'd ever met anyone in his life who wore collar pins, but Bruce made it look so natural), the way his tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders, the gleam of grey at his temples and that expensive haircut that made his hair fall into his forehead with just a tad of rakishness. But the look in his eyes was _Bruce_ , not Bruce Wayne. The Bruce who crawled underneath Clark's skin, who made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, who made him furious in ways few other people ever had. 

Who got Clark to agree to the stupidest things out of mere spite, or else he wouldn't have found himself naked on his knees in Bruce's bedroom, glaring up at him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, when the Bat had snarled at him about a lack of control, about Clark not reining his powers in sufficiently, needling and prodding and provoking him until Clark had snapped back that he was happy to convince Bruce of the opposite. 

“Put your hands behind your back.” Bruce's voice was even, neutral – it was the same tone he used for orders in the field. Clark hated how much he expected to be obeyed, but disobeying him would defeat the purpose of this whole exercise. And it irked him even more how much that tone had also started to reassure him – Bruce was infuriating, but every fight was easier with the Bat by his side. He tried not to think about what else that tone did to him, not as exposed as he was. Not when he wasn't entirely sure what Bruce was hoping to get out of this.

Clark folded his hands behind his back without taking his eyes off Bruce. Bruce raised one hand to his tie, then seemed to think better of it and instead picked up another tie from the nightstand – he must have worn it just before changing into the Batsuit earlier that night, if Alfred hadn't had time to put it away yet. It was black, unsurprisingly, subtly patterned, and when Bruce crouched down behind him and looped it around Clark's wrists, it slid smoothly over his skin. It wasn't pure silk, but it still felt as soft as a feather when it brushed over the sensitive skin on the insides of Clark's wrists. Fabric so delicate that Bruce himself probably could have torn it easily, but after all this wasn't about mere physical strength.

Clark closed his eyes for a moment – Bruce's fingertips were as rough as the tie was soft, his hands steady and nimble. He didn't even bother with a sturdy knot, only wrapped the tie snugly around Clark's wrists and tied up the ends. His breath – still so calm, so even – washed hotly over the back of Clark's neck, its touch almost more real than that of Bruce's fingers when he brushed over the insides of Clark's wrists, right next to the tie. A mockery of how he would have checked the restraints if this had been about _restraining_ Clark.

“Don't move,” he said again. There was a hint of Bruce Wayne in his voice when he added, “I like that tie.”

Clark flexed his fingers. The bonds were so loose that it was almost difficult to keep the sleek fabric from slipping off his wrists. When Bruce rose and stepped around him again, his leg brushed against Clark's shoulder – soft wool covering muscles that were as hard as Clark's own. Clark's breath hitched for a moment, and he thought he could hear an echo of his own desire in Bruce's heartbeat.

“What is this supposed to prove?” he started to ask, and almost didn't react in time when Bruce slapped him hard across the face. Clark only remembered at the last moment to roll with it, to turn his head to the side so Bruce wouldn't break his hand on his cheek. It didn't _hurt_ – but just because he couldn't feel physical pain didn't mean it didn't sting, his skin hot from the impact, his nerves tingling. But he couldn't put his flush on either of those things – Bruce had punched him before, had shoved him and grabbed him, but he'd never slapped him. There was something almost dismissive in that, condescending, as if he didn't need a proper punch to handle Clark, and yet – 

“You could have hurt yourself,” Clark said tersely. The corner of Bruce's mouth quirked up.

“You did want to convince me you have control over yourself,” Bruce said, looking awfully amused for a man who'd scarcely managed to avoid several major fractures in his hand. Clark let out a tense laugh, more relieved than anything else.

“Unusually trusting for your standards.”

“I'm learning,” Bruce said dryly. His voice struck a note somewhere deep in Clark's chest, like a chord that, once struck, kept humming. His skin felt too hot in the airconditioned room, on his wrists under the cool silk, on his bent thighs, between them. 

Bruce's backhand was a welcome distraction from that particular line of thought, and this time Clark rolled with it so slowly that he could feel Bruce's knuckles pressing into his cheek after that initial smack of skin on skin. His arm muscles tensed, and he had to force himself to hold still so he wouldn't rip the tie. He didn't manage to bite back a quiet gasp.

He tried to ground himself by listening to Bruce's heartbeat, a fraction faster than it had been before, and when Clark breathed in deeply he could smell a whiff of pre-come. His eyes slid up Bruce's body slowly, up tailoring so exquisite that Clark would have missed the hint of a bulge in Bruce's slacks if he hadn't known to look for it. He met Bruce's eyes, dark and unreadable.

“How am I doing?” Clark asked and felt his face split into a grin. He felt giddy, whether it was from the concentration or the way he allowed his sense to be overstimulated, or maybe just from the way Bruce was looking at him. He wondered if this was what being drunk felt like.

“Clearly quite well,” Bruce said, his voice thick with innuendo. He stepped so close that Clark had to lean back a little to keep his face from brushing against Bruce's hip, and then he nudged Clark's balls with the tip of his shoe. The leather was as smooth as it came, its touch nothing like the touch of a hand or a mouth. Bruce seemed perfectly balanced standing on one foot while he rubbed the side of his shoe over Clark's cock, and Clark _hadn't_ been quite that hard just a moment before. He could feel the texture of the leather, the barely noticeable imperfections in it, the tight control Bruce had over his body as if he had to worry about hurting Clark.

The moment he felt the tie slip over his wrist, Bruce pulled back.

“I told you to hold still.” His tone was a stern reprimand that made Clark flush more than his touch had, and he awkwardly adjusted his hands behind his back to keep the tie looped around his wrists.

“You're usually better with knots,” he said, and tried to focus on the delicate weaving of Bruce's slacks, the way the fabric fell around his thick thighs. Clark doubted that any tailoring in the world could make Bruce anything less than imposing. The fabric bulged just so over Bruce's groin, increasingly failing to hide that Bruce was enjoying this every bit as much as Clark was. Clark breathed in deeply, let Bruce's scent flood his senses until he felt intoxicated on it.

Bruce didn't dignify his comment with an answer, or maybe he simply didn't want to remind either of them that he would have brought chains and kryptonite if restraining Clark had been his goal. Instead he nudged Clark's thigh with the tip of his shoe and let his suit brush over Clark's cock, and just as Clark's eyes were fluttering close he felt the air move under Bruce's approaching hand. The slap echoed through the quiet room and Clark's nerves burnt, he curled his hands into fists and pressed them tightly against his lower back to keep the tie in place.

He didn't know if it was the slaps that made him tense every muscle in his body, or simply the fact that it was Bruce administering them, or that Bruce was _enjoying_ it. He wanted to be ashamed, of being naked on his knees while Bruce still looked polished enough for any board meeting, of wanting him so desperately, but then Bruce's heartbeat thundered in Clark's ears like organ pipes, and his pupils were too wide, and the next time he slapped Clark his hand lingered on his cheek, four anvil-hot pressure points on his skin, and then a fifth, firmer still than the others, when Bruce ran his thumb over Clark's lips.

Maybe when a man had tried to kill you, and you him, shame seemed like a silly thing to get hung up about. Or maybe when you had died in front of him and crawled back to him when you'd still been weak and powerless. Or maybe Clark had decided not to be ashamed about what he wanted the moment he had stripped down on Bruce's orders, the moment he'd admitted that he didn't wear anything else under his suit and if he took it off, that'd be it, and Bruce had simply raised an eyebrow like that made any difference.

Clark looked up at Bruce, and he made sure to meet his eyes before he constricted his throat and breathed out a thin stream of icy air. Bruce pulled back his hand with a startled flinch, and Clark enjoyed the look of genuine surprise in those ever so calm eyes far more than he should. He breathed out again, the cold air aimed at Bruce's crotch this time, and judging by the way Bruce shuddered, it was cold enough to seep through the wool and the silk of his clothes.

“See, I have even control over things you didn't know I could do,” he said with a broad grin that he knew would make Bruce frown. It was awkward to move with his hands bound behind his back, but he still managed to scoot forward on his knees until his lips almost brushed Bruce's groin. He rubbed his cheek against the clothed bulge – and for all that it didn't _look_ as obvious as it would have in jeans, it felt anything but inconspicuous, large and heavy and so very hot. He smelt so good that Clark's head almost swam a little.

Bruce's fingers – warm except for his thumb, which felt as cold as if he'd spent a winter day outside – combed through Clark's hair and kept him close, and Clark wanted nothing more than to get his hands on Bruce, too. But for all that he didn't have anything to prove, not truly, he didn't want to break the rules of this game. Instead he mouthed at Bruce's groin, let him feel the heat of his lips even as he blew out another stream of cold air that drew a barely restrained gasp from Bruce's lips. He wondered if Bruce would let him continue until he came, ruining those unspeakably expensive slacks of his; he imagined what it would feel like to taste Bruce's come once it had seeped through two layers of decadent fabric. But Bruce must have had the same thought, and he must have decided that he'd prefer Clark's mouth to his own underwear. 

His right hand kept Clark's head in place – with as little force in that touch as he'd put into the restraints around Clark's wrists – while his left unzipped his slacks, not bothering to undress any further beyond getting his cock out. Clark nosed at it, at the silky, thin skin under which he could feel Bruce's heartbeat pulse, and when Bruce's fingers tightened in his hair, Clark's own hands twitched in sympathy, desperate to touch.

Bruce shifted in front of him, wedged his leg firmly between Clark's tense thighs until his shin pressed Clark's cock against his stomach. It was barely enough friction and yet the multitude of sensations – of his own skin, of the fabric of Bruce's slacks, of Bruce's cock against his mouth and his zipper against Clark's chin – was almost too much.

If this had been Bruce Wayne, the playboy, the extravagant billionaire who belonged in that bespoke suit, Clark imagined that he would have talked more, but this Bruce was as quiet as the Bat – or as quiet as he could possibly remain. But Clark heard the sharp intake of breath that made his nostrils flare when more icy air was blown over his cock, right before Clark enveloped it with his mouth and pressed his tongue against the length of it. Clark heard how his heartbeat picked up, how his blood rushed through his veins, how his breathing became fast and shallow even as it remained almost soundless. 

Clark hadn't done this often before, and he was too distracted by the pressure of Bruce's leg against his cock and by the effort it took to stay still in the position Bruce had put him into, and yet he didn't seem to be doing so badly. Bruce's cock was heavy in his mouth, the weight on his tongue and the pressure against the back of his throat dizzying in their unfamiliarity. He tasted nothing but Bruce's skin, the saltiness of sweat and arousal, felt his nose flooded with his smell until it became impossible to sense anything else. What part of his brain still functioned on rational thought rather than on one sensation warring with the other in his mind realised that he was all but humping Bruce's leg, rubbing desperately against it. As hypersensitive as he was feeling even that was enough.

He moaned around Bruce's cock when he came – so early, so fast, he realised dimly and couldn't bring himself to care – and kept rubbing against the soaked fabric, greedily drinking that new sensation in while Bruce pushed deeper into his mouth. When he looked up, Bruce barely looked like himself anymore, his eyes hungry, his lips parted breathlessly, his forehead gleaming with sweat even as his clothes still looked mostly untouched and unrumpled. Clark kept watching him, eager to see Bruce lose his precious composure, drinking up the flush on his cheeks, the small gasps for air, and then that deep, rough moan that tore itself from his chest the moment before he filled Clark's mouth and throat.

Clark failed to swallow it all at once, didn't want to either when he'd rather taste it properly first – and if he'd made a mess of things, so could Bruce. He kept rubbing idly against Bruce's leg while he licked him clean, his tongue laving the soft skin of his cock while Bruce looked at him like he wasn't entirely sure how they'd ended up here. Clark wasn't entirely sure about that either, but it didn't seem to matter much in that moment.

He sighed softly when Bruce finally made a step backwards, away from Clark's mouth and his cock. Clark wouldn't have minded if Bruce had kept touching him – his cock didn't feel any less good just because he'd come once, and Bruce's skin tasted distractingly good. Maybe he should have reached out, grabbed Bruce's hips and pulled him close, lifted him up and carried him those few steps over to his bed, ruined the rest of his clothes while ripping them off him and then – 

He licked his lips and swallowed. Bruce had told him to stay still, and Clark was still determined to show him that he could. So he watched impatiently while Bruce cleaned himself up quickly with a dark handkerchief and tucked himself back in, his shirt barely rumpled, his tie still neat, his hair only marginally dishevelled. But the right leg of his slacks was soaked with Clark's come, and even if he had looked perfect, Clark could have smelt everything they'd done right there on his skin, barely hidden under silk and wool and silver.

Bruce watched him, and even when he was so clearly full of desire, he was as hard to read as ever.

“Get up,” he said finally. His voice was rougher than before, like sandpaper dragged over his throat, like the harsh surface of the Bat's gloves.

It was unbalancing, to get to his feet with his hands behind himself, still keeping them pressed against his back to keep the tie from slipping loose. He wondered what he looked like to Bruce's eyes, with his shoulders rolled back, his cock still hard, a drip of Bruce's come clinging to his chin that he couldn't wipe away.

Bruce took his time watching him, kept watching him while he stepped around him and pressed against Clark's back. His body felt hotter than it had before, and Clark realised only now that Bruce had barely touched him – his wrists when he had tied them, his hair, his face briefly. He hadn't even kissed him.

Bruce's lips ghosted over the back of his neck now, and even Clark's senses could barely register this touch, only the harsh rasp of his stubble. Steady, strong hands came to rest on Clark's tense shoulders, squeezed them briefly before they slid down over the taut muscles of his arms, firmly enough that it sent the same tingle through Clark's nerves as the slaps on his face had. Not pain, just the kind of almost violent stimulation that made him shudder. Their touch became lighter when they reached Clark's wrists, and that faint brush over his pulse shouldn't have sent the same prickle through his skin as Bruce's strength.

Bruce rested his chin on Clark's shoulder, casually, obnoxiously so, as if he felt like rubbing in that he was taller than him. But his hands were unbearably tender when he opened the loose knot in the tie and unwound it, pointedly dragging the silky fabric over Clark's oversensitised skin.

“You didn't tear it,” Bruce said with something that sounded like grudging appreciation, and his voice dropped lower when he added, “Very good.”

Clark's cock twitched against his stomach, still hard and full and _needy_ in a way that made him flush with more embarrassment than anything else had. He wanted Bruce to keep talking to him, to give him more orders, or to praise him, or maybe to ask him for more. His senses were flooded with Bruce and the thought of leaving now, of letting Bruce get back to being his usual composed self was unbearable. He hadn't even been allowed to touch him yet. He hadn't had time yet to drink in everything Bruce was, to smell him and taste him and kiss every inch of his body.

He turned his head so he could meet Bruce's eyes, but before his brain found the right words to say, Bruce leant in and licked neatly over Clark's chin, cleaning off that streak of come that Clark's tongue hadn't managed to catch earlier. A firm, pointed lick, and nothing Bruce did was ever not deliberate – he wanted Clark to think about Bruce's tongue on his cock, licking over it just like that, showing off yet another thing he had to be frustratingly good at.

Clark still kept his hands behind his back, where they brushed against the fabric of Bruce's dress shirt. He flexed his fingers, felt Bruce's hard muscles underneath them. Bruce was still holding the tie in one hand, but he seemed to have no further plans for it.

Clark licked his lips, and met Bruce's eyes, and curled two fingers into the button tab of his shirt.

“Am I allowed to move now?” he asked.

The corner of Bruce's mouth curled up. He dropped the tie to the floor, and Clark didn't wait for a reply.


End file.
